


Rosy Retrospection

by Wint3r_B3ar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Minor Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault, minor hilda/ignatz, semi modern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28471740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wint3r_B3ar/pseuds/Wint3r_B3ar
Summary: Hilda is haunted by her present.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Rosy Retrospection

Once, when Hilda was still young and beautiful, she traveled to the Italian Riviera and happened upon an old fountain. It was run down, the arms had long gone missing on the statues and calcium deposits clung to every possible surface making the water dribble instead of flow from the spouts.

But still a complacent smile remained on the main statue's face, like she knew a secret. Like she didn’t care her arms had fallen off or that she'd grown a calcium double chin over the ages.

Hilda thought her terrifyingly beautiful and was even surprised to find she was envious of the statue. Envious of how comfortable the statue seemed to be with her lot in life, how satisfied she looked with herself.

She remembered telling so to Caspar who’d shrugged and told her that it was totally fine to have those feelings. Even if it was for a statue.

 _Because_ , he'd said, _if you really thought about it, someone put a lot of love and effort into making this fountain and placing it here for people to enjoy for hundreds of years._

He had leaned against the basin of the fountain, crossed his legs and winked at her. _Besides, this statue has been here for years and will likely still be here when everyone else has gone. So, what isn’t there to be jealous of?_

 _Caspar_ , she'd breathed then, _where'd you get something so insightful?_

And he'd shrugged, a grin lighting up his face. _I don’t know,_ he'd admitted _, but I just didn’t want you to feel alone._

And that right there was the moment her silly heart finally decided to go tipping into a pool of blue and raucous laughter because who couldn’t love a guy after something like _that_?

Anyways. That was years ago, Hilda thinks, as she nurses her second flute of bubbly. The gallery is crowded with socialites and politicians and aspiring starlets and even a few has-beens but hardly anyone is paying attention to the newly premiered exhibit.

Her heart is thumping so wildly she can hardly concentrate. It isn’t fair, she thinks, to be attacked with nostalgia when she'd come expecting to see a few pictures from the personal archives of a dead billionaire and a party.

She navigates around the room and settles onto a bench. The eyes of the statue (not even the focus of the photo!) seems to track her through the room, mocking her with that same stupidly smug smile from years ago.

Hilda presses the heel of her hand against her temple and tries to ground herself. She hasn’t been to Italy in years, hasn’t left the continent in at least three. She's stayed busy with her art school here in Derdriu so why, _why_ does she suddenly feel kissed by the Mediterranean sun?

“Hilda? Are you ok?” Ignatz’s hand is warm and gentle on her shoulder and she leans into him for support. Sweet, kind Ignatz. She doesn’t deserve him either but here he is, just the same.

“Just barely. I have a pounding headache.” He frowns and kneels in front of her, studying her face. She smiles weakly and some of the concern melts off his face.

“OK. Shall we head out then?”

They make their way out, his hand resting on her lower back. Ignatz doesn’t have the social graces of a born and bred noble but he's spent enough time in high society now to navigate through. At the very least, Holst approves of him and Hilda supposes that’s the most important bit anyway.

Hilda looks up at Ignatz who's filled out and aged gracefully like the fine Bordeaux wines the Gonerils favor. She knows she’s lucky, that it’s rare to reconnect like they have so later on in life but she still _feels_ a little short-handed.

Such comments upsets Ignatz who she feels still carries a chip on his shoulder when it comes to these things. So Hilda keeps them to herself. Although she feels a sinking guilt in the pit of her stomach that Caspar wouldn’t have minded, that he would have given her that lopsided grin and would have said something to the effect of _well then I guess I’ll have to try a little harder then._

Or maybe he wouldn’t. It’s been so long Hilda finds it difficult now to separate between the actual Caspar of her memories from the Caspar of her fantasies.

Caspar von Bergliez…

It was really a spur of a moment thing between the two of them. The war ended a few weeks back, and with reconstruction fully under way and treaties being worked out, there had really been no more reasons for the two of them to hang out in Garreg Mach.

“So what are your plans, Caspar?” she asked Caspar one nippy evening late fall of ’86.

“Not much. Haven’t thought I’d live to see the war end, honestly. Maybe I'll go somewhere warm and bum around for a while.” They had been passing a flask of the good stuff between them in the now empty war room. How strange it now looked, all cleared out of the maps and files that had been whisked away under _classified_ status. Their voices echoed in the now bare space, especially since Caspar wasn’t a particularly quiet kind of guy.

Hilda giggled and punched him gently in the shoulder, “Come on, I’m being serious.”

He caught her hand and ran a thumb over her knuckles, “So am I.”

Caspar's blue, blue eyes (the color of one of her now favorites- aquamarine) bore into hers and she watched as his Adam’s apple bob with a nervous swallow.

Caspar? Nervous? The only time Hilda'd seen him like this was right before they fought his father at the Battle of Fort Merceus.

Should _she_ be nervous?

“Um, on that note,” He swallowed again and she felt her pulse quicken, “Would, ah, would you like to come with?”

…

They went to Brigid first. It made the most sense, Petra and Ashe were already on their way there and there was plenty of room on the ocean liner her grandfather had sent to fetch her.

The trip from Enbarr to Brigid was a glorious two weeks of fine dining, playing croquet on the deck and sun bathing. She and Caspar spent another month luxuriating at the palace before they decided to set out for the quaint little beach towns on the shore.

So much for bumming it out in the sun.

Caspar was restless, after five years of war and extreme discipline, and he eagerly helped out the locals with rebuilding in the wake of war. There was so much devastation and pain even here down in Brigid and they didn’t even go through the worst bits of battle.

Hilda couldn’t help but feel guilty about lazing around when Caspar was being so helpful, even though he insisted she didn’t have to ( _I'm doing the work for the both of us,_ he'd said, _don’t worry this is nothing for me!)_

What was it about those sparkly blue eyes that made her want to do more?

She eventually settled on making jewelry and accessories for the women in the village.

( _See how happy you make them, Hilda? You’re amazing!)_

Caspar always managed to lift her moods. Even then, in those early days.

“Hilda,” he murmured into her shoulder one evening after a particularly tiring day spent clearing away rubble for him and teaching the local children weaving bracelets for her, “What do you think about going back home?”

She turned her head to look at him and he tucked his face into the crook of her neck.

“Already?”

Hilda reached up to stroke his hair and he nodded, the stubble growing on his chin ticklish against the wing of her shoulder.

“I just. You know, wanna make sure the folks back home are OK. I don’t want to go back _home_ home. Just, you know, see if they need help rebuilding.”

Caspar had such a big heart. Her own swelled in affection for him and she wiggled her way a little deeper into his embrace.

…

Fodlan, surprisingly, was in better shape than Brigid.

They arrived at the port of Enbarr and was shocked to find they’d managed to clear away most of the rubble. There were still big gaping spots along the picturesque boulevards and avenues where buildings had been burned down or damaged by explosions and homes of citizens were still in disrepair but the United Kingdom of Fodlan was working closely with the Archbishop to rebuild the continent.

They traveled from territory to territory, spending a few weeks with various friends before moving on.

Faerghus in particular was…difficult, in part due to Caspar's clearly Adrestian lilt and his family's iconic blue coloring.

Plus, he wasn’t exactly known for…for patience. Or self control, for that matter.

Thank goodness they were both decorated war heroes on the winning side. And it certainly helped they had friends in high places.

Felix grumbled as he tossed Caspar an ice pack.

“You need to be more careful about picking fights, Bergliez.” Hilda gently applied a salve over the split skin of his cheek before covering it with a clean bandage.

“That's hilarious coming from you, Fe.” She winked at Caspar who tried to grin despite the swelling in his face. Felix didn’t respond but Annette did with a cheery burst of laughter as they settled into the Fraldarious’s private quarters for a long night of catching up.

Felix rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the flush creeping up his throat, “You shouldn’t encourage him, Hilda.”

“Yeah, yeah. Got it.” She gave him a lazy salute and Annie placed a warning hand on the newly minted Duke's thigh. A gigantic rock sparkled on her finger, even in the dim fire light. She also wore the Fraldarious family crested signet ring on another finger that glimmered with her slow rhythmic rubs.

A tiny part of Hilda was jealous of the stability these two managed to build for themselves and wondered if Caspar would ever make an honest woman out of her.

But then she remembered she'd have to go back to her life as a stuffy noble and Caspar’d also be chained down to some bureaucratic leash and she wasn’t so jealous anymore. And besides, that meant they'd have to face the implications of the _L_ word and Hilda wasn’t sure she could take Caspar there. Not yet at least.

What if those _L_ feelings weren’t returned?

 _I mean, who said anything about the_ L _word anyways,_ she quickly corrected herself.

Caspar was fun. They both happened to want the same things from their life at this point and she didn’t think there was any need to place stock in feelings that maybe weren’t even real.

A couple drinks in and Felix-he never could hold his liquor, even during the war-got sentimental.

“I could use a good man like you for my Army if you’re ever interested.”

Caspar didn’t even miss a beat.

“Nah, I promised this beautiful girl I’d show her the world and a Bergliez always keeps their promises. Appreciate it, though.”

Maybe it was that good Faerghan whisky. Maybe it was the spread of fine cheeses and charcuterie. Or the fire roaring in the cozy space. The tinny jazz from the old-fashioned phonograph. Perhaps it was the thick sheepskin pelts Faerghans preferred over the woven blankets and duvets of the former Alliance.

But Hilda felt so warm and tingly just then, from the tips of her delicately painted toes to the ends of her signature pink hair.

“And you better keep _all_ your promises, mister, because I’ve written them all down.” She cozied up to him and smiled as he draped an arm across her shoulders, kissed her nose.

Annette sighed with a half swoon and leaned in for her own kiss, “This is all terribly romantic. I’m jealous.”

…

Somewhere along their travels, they found themselves burnt out and tired by Fodlandian politics. Trouble was brewing up north in Sreng, civil unrest was growing in Dagda and they escaped all the way across the ocean to Europe.

She loved the rolling hills and meadows of France with their wild daisies growing along the highways and the beautiful castles of Versailles and Fontainebleu. Hilda adored the little stands along the Seine and riding the lift to the top of the Eiffel tower.

Hilda was enamored by the many, many parfumeries that dotted Paris and bought way too many soaps, powders and candles that she ended up shipping back home.

She spent an hour on the phone in the hotel begging Holst to wire her money to swap out her now-worn luggage for a brand new set from Louis Vuitton ( _my old set is falling apart! It’s practically a necessity!)_ , a darling alligator Kelly bag from Hermes ( _but brother dearest, you know how much I wanted an alligator kelly and it’s PINK!)_ and the new resort collection from Dior ( _YES, the entire collection. Do you want me to wear the same outfits to different functions?)._

With the money left over, she promptly bought matching gold bracelets for herself and Caspar from Cartier.

(Caspar, to his credit, wore his bracelet dutifully although he did complain, rather loudly, that Hilda _could make one way better than this boring looking thing._ Embarrassing as it was in front of the sales associate, she wore a shit-eating grin the rest of the day)

They then spent afternoons lost in the mazes of the streets and late nights huddled together in smoky bars. Most days, if she wasn’t exploring the markets or shopping, Hilda wandered the exhibits at the D'Orsay or the L'Orangerie. But Caspar wasn’t much for museums and city life and he soon got restless.

“Come on Hilda. I hear there are some really amazing views in the south of France. Plus mountains.”

She pouted. Mountains sounded like a lot of work, and she wasn’t quite ready to leave Paris.

“Aw, Hilda, I’ll make it worth it. I’ll carry you everywhere if I need to.”

He smiled then, showing off his dimples and Hilda knew she'd already lost. The jerk, he knew how weak she was against his dimples!

That was how Hilda found herself freezing in the snow as Caspar played with the local children in a tiny village tucked into the Alps.

“You're being mean, Caspar!” She called when he pelted a kid half his size with a snow ball the size of his head. He grinned and belted out a laugh as four kids launched a desperate last stand against the decorated general and tackled him into the snow.

From where Hilda was sitting, all she could see was a flurry of snow kicked up with their movements.

And then, finally, Caspar emerged from the snow victorious. There were two kids under each arm, looking about as happy as only graceful losers can be.

And Caspar?

Well. The smile on his face could light up the entire damn mountain.

…

They ran into Ferdinand and Dorothea in Milan. Or rather, were ambushed by the pair, more like.

“Darling!” Dorothea's sing-song had rung out seconds before she enveloped them both in a delicately perfumed hug.

Hilda hugged her back, feeling a little weepy at the sight of her old friends. By that point, it had been what, almost two, three years?- since they’ve last seen the songstress and her brand-spankin-new fiancé.

“Capital running into you two here!” declared Ferdinand as he clapped Caspar on the back and kissed Hilda's cheeks, “You must be here for Dorothea's show?”

“Oh, stop it, Ferdie. Not everyone comes to Milan to see me, you know.” But Dorothea had gone rosy-cheeked with pleasure and she grabbed Ferdinand's chin to tug him into a kiss.

Hilda's mouth dropped.

“Dorothea, you don’t mean the La Scala?”

Her friend smiled all coy and Ferdinand looked confused ( _But of course! What other opera house is there in Milan?)_ but Caspar groaned.

“It’s great to see you all but can we just get some lunch first?”

They got caught up between black truffle risottos (Ferdinand and Hilda) and hearty meat stews (Caspar and Dorothea) while sipping on robust red wines.

“She's just spectacular as Cho-Cho, she brings me to tears with every performance.”

Ferdinand’s eyes already looked sort of teary and Dorothea good naturedly rolled her eyes while reaching for his hand. Caspar's glance shifted from between the two until he finally smirked, “Ferdinand? Crying? I kind of want to see this.”

Hilda did, too. She smiled and winked at Dorothea, “Oh and we’d _love_ to see you perform, Dorothea! It’s been much too long since I’ve heard you sing, much less perform.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Dorothea beamed as she slid the meat off its bones and unceremoniously dumped it onto the white linen table cloth.

If Ferdinand noticed the breach in proper tableside manners, he didn’t comment on it as he sipped from his wine.

Caspar seemed to realize he just roped himself into sitting for a three hour opera as he visibly deflated and Hilda found she had to pet his arm under the table to keep him peppy for the rest of the meal. Not that she’d minded.

But anyways. La Scala!

One of more premier opera houses in the world, Hilda expected something…grander.

She felt her excitement slightly wilting. No offense to Milan or Dorothea but honestly, was _this_ the famed La Scala opera house, the home to Verdi??

Granted it was still beautiful with all the marble columns, intricate wood carvings, gold gilded rails and plush red velvet but after having come from the Palais Garnier a few weeks back?

“Chin up, Hilda,” Caspar tried to whisper into her ear. She grinned then, because he was so silly, his whisper was easily as loud as a regular person's speaking voice. Besides, who was telling _who_ to keep their chin up?

They followed Ferdinand (and his giant bouquet of roses) to a private box and Hilda tried to keep an interested face as he and Caspar eagerly discussed former Adrestian politics. Nowadays, Ferdinand reported directly to the king as the Duke of Aegir and worked closely with his Duchy's elected officials.

Thank goodness the lights soon dimmed on the giant chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Hilda was duly impressed by the acoustics of the place and the floating sounds of the orchestra from the pit.

How lovely, she thought, her heart soaring as her regard for La Scala redeemed itself.

As for the actual opera?

Well, Ferdinand was right. Dorothea _was_ indeed spectacular.

But plot twist, Ferdinand wasn’t the only one who'd _cried like a baby._

Nope.

The teary eyes started when ChoCho realized Pinkerton really wasn’t coming to see her and he and his new wife wanted to take her child. Then came the sniffles as she said her goodbyes to her son and blindfolded him.

By the time the titular Madame Butterfly killed herself dramatically behind the silkscreen, Caspar had started full on ugly crying.

It still put a smile on Hilda's face to remember how she had to pass Ferdinand a tissue and hold Caspar's much broader weeping form against her chest.

“I’m going to beat that bastard Pinkerton up if I ever see him.”

Hilda giggled and rubbed his back. Thank goodness Ferdinand had already left to escort Dorothea back. The four had plans to go drinking later and Hilda honestly couldn’t wait.

“Caspar, sweetie, as much as I love to see you rough up assholes, please don’t actually beat the guy up. He’s only just acting.”

He lifted his head to look her in the eyes, “Yeah. I know. But it just makes me feel better to say it.”

He hunched into her again, “And any guy who treats his wife like that is a major douchebag. I’ll never do that to you, Hilda.”

“Well, never say never Caspar but thank you.” Her heart was pounding so loudly at his admission. Did…did this mean he wanted to marry her?

Was she being silly and reading into things?

He did just indirectly refer to her as his _wife_ , right?

“Your heart’s racing. You ok?” Caspar mumbled.

 _Well yes, if its ok for my chest to feel like I’ve swallowed a jar of butterflies,_ she wanted to say.

Instead, Hilda opted to press her chin into his hair and breathe in the scent of his cologne and aftershave.

She was feeling dangerously close to the _L_ word. And some things felt better left unsaid.

…

Ferdinand and Dorothea wanted to spend the weekend at a small beachside village before Ferdinand had to go back.

Hilda and Caspar decided to join them for the ride although they declined the couple’s offer to stay in the same villa.

( _There's only so much Ferdinand I can stand at a time,_ Caspar’d said and Hilda, as much as she adored the pompous ginger, was very much inclined to agree.)

It was here, under the hot Mediterranean sun, cheery lemon trees and gorgeous clear beaches, that Hilda and Caspar ran into the fountain.

It was here where she decided that _yes,_ she loved him.

How strange and wonderful it was, to finally make that admission. Even if only to herself.

And as she watched him struggle with her new trunks up the small, winding steps to the apartment they'd found, Hilda indulged herself to think that maybe, just _maybe_ he loved her, too.

…

It wasn’t fair that while Hilda and Dorothea both got badly burned the second they laid out in the sun, Ferdinand and Caspar got tanned a glorious sun-kissed bronze.

“That’s what happens when you underestimate the sun, dear.” Ferdinand kissed Dorothea's red shoulder before laying a patch of sliced aloe over her skin to draw out the heat.

“Careful, Ferdie. Mock me at your own expense, you go back home tomorrow and I _might_ be too tired tonight. If you know what I mean,” groused Dorothea but Hilda could see there was no actual bite to her words. She tuned out Ferdinand's flustered response and sighed as Caspar applied a fresh slab of aloe over her own burned shoulders.

“You know, not to change the subject but I got a letter from your brother the other day,” Caspar began as he poured more prosecco for Hilda, “He, uh, wants us to come back.”

Hilda raised an eyebrow at the thought. Holst? Send Caspar a missive?

Ferdinand thought it interesting, too.

“Lord Goneril? Did he state why?”

Caspar squirmed a little before admitting that Holst offered him a post as a knight in the employ of House Goneril.

Hilda's mouth dropped. Really?? Holst really offered Caspar a post?

She felt her cheeks redden and not just from sunburn. If he accepted then he would be by her side forever.

She could finally go _home._ Because home for them both would now mean Goneril. They wouldn’t have to go their separate ways and Hilda wouldn’t have to keep traveling just to stay with Caspar. Hilda was dizzy with all the sudden possibilities.

She reached for Caspar's hand and he smiled oh-so-sweetly at her.

Ugh. Her heart did somersaults across her chest and she bit down on her lip. _Geez_ , she was so crazy about him.

Ferdinand frowned, “Well, if you wanted to be a knight, I can offer you a General’s post in Aegir. You'd be better suited for former Adrestian territories than the Alliance’s.”

Before she even realized what she was doing, Hilda had pushed up on her elbows to look down at the ginger.

“Ferdinand von Aegir, if you don’t stop talking nonsense, I’ll strangle you myself with these noodle-y arms. Or, you know, Caspar’ll do it for me.”

Dorothea let out a hoot of laughter. Ferdinand looked flustered as he looked from Caspar to Hilda.

Caspar himself grinned widely and declared he'd already accepted Holst's offer.

And Hilda threw her arms around Caspar's neck, slimy chunks of aloe and all.

…

They landed in London for a few days for a layover.

London, in contrast to Italy, was grey and wet and chilly.

But that meant Hilda could buy all the scarves, coats and fine leather gloves as she liked. While she spent an afternoon taking tea with her friend, the Duchess of Cambridge, Caspar excused himself citing he had _errands._

Huh.

Strange. But Hilda paid no mind and enjoyed finger sandwiches, delicate scones with clotted cream, petit fours and fragrant pots of tea that would make Ferdinand green with envy.

She wished Caspar was here to meet her friends but then what would she introduce him as?

Her…lover? Boyfriend? Holst's new Captain of the Knights?

She wished she could call him her _fiancé_ like Dorothea loved to say, or better yet, her _husband._

But who was she kidding? Caspar was oblivious.

She huffed as she tossed herself onto their bed at the Savoy.

“Hilda?” called Caspar as he wandered into the bedroom.

“Hey Caspar.” She rolled over and stared at the ruffles off the canopy of the bed. Stupid things, they served no purpose but to just _be_ there and be pretty.

Hilda was so _done_ with just being pretty.

“How was your afternoon?” He settled down at the foot of the bed and placed a warm hand on her ankle. She hummed as he rubbed her leg slowly.

“It was good.”

“Just good?”

“Just good. You?”

The bed dipped and she heard the rustle of fabric as Caspar flopped onto his bed.

“Well, mine was just good too.” Hilda pursed her lips and curled onto her side. She tapped Caspar's side with her toes, “Hey, mister, what kind of errand was it anyways?”

“Nothing really.” He propped up on and elbow and looked up at her, “Hey Hilda?”

“Hmm?”

He chewed on his lip briefly before laying back down. “Nevermind.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Hey now. What's gotten into you?”

She sat up and tugged on his arm. He let her do so for a few moments then pulled himself up again.

“I’m scared of Holst.”

Hilda's eyes widened for a half second before she felt her face splitting into a sly grin.

“Hey! It’s true. I’m scared of him. Not because I don’t think I can’t win him in a fight because I _can._ But because…you know.”

“Caspar! What do you mean? Holst might nag a lot but there’s no real malice to him. You just gotta learn to ignore him half the time.”

She settled against him, her mood lifting. How was Caspar so good at this?

He stroked her hair and mumbled something so low she couldn’t quite catch it.

“Huh? What's that?” She asked, twisting slightly in his embrace.

He grimaced and buried his head back into the crook of her neck.

“I just…I want Holst’s approval. Because, you know, he's important to you. And that kind of thing is important to me.”

Oh goddamnit.

Tears blurred her vision at that and she sniffled, covering her face with her hands.

She could feel the panic radiating off of Caspar.

“Uh Hilda?! I’m sorry. Why are you crying? I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He held her against him, his heart racing against her ear.

She hit him weakly once, twice…

“Why are you sorry, dummy, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Hilda sniffed and hid her face behind a mess of her pink hair.

Caspar sighed as he brushed her hair away gently. “Hilda, I really, really want you to be happy. I know you've been going through a rough patch but I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

She blinked, “But I’m not unhappy. I haven’t been this happy in _years._ Caspar, I can’t be unhappy when I’m with you. You know that, silly.”

“You…really?”

“Yes, really.” She smiled and nuzzled against him, patted his arm, “Besides, if I didn’t have you, who’d help poor, dainty little old me carry all my luggage? I really hit it out of the park with you.”

‘Yeah, that’s right. Anything for you, Hil.”

He rubbed her back soothingly, his fingers playing with the ends of her hair.

He cleared his throat and the fingers in her hair got a little more insistent. She raised an eyebrow and tried to look up at him while still cozy against his neck, “Caspar?”

“Um. Yeah. Anyways. You make me happy too, Hilda.”

“Aw thanks.” She giggled softly as she kissed the pulsing just under his jaw. He was slowing reddening from his ears down-a rare sight nowadays as they got more and more familiar with each other.

Caspar shifted and squirmed for a second but Hilda paid him no mind as she kept planting soft kisses.

“Uh, Hilda?”

“Hm?”

“I um, wanted to wait until I spoke with Holst about it but I figure now’s a good a time as any.”

“For what?” She paused and leaned away so she could better scrutinize Caspar’s handsome face. He, he sounded nervous, his voice almost cracking a few times. Plus, he was now almost tomato red.

“Are you…are you alright, Caspar?”

He hopped off the bed, took a swig of her champagne left on the bedside table and did a few jumps to shake out his limbs. He took a deep breath, rubbed the back of his neck and got down on one knee, opening up a small, black velvet box to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

“Hilda Valentine Goneril, will you marry me?”

…

And that, Hilda remembers, was the happiest moment of her life. Well, at least until she and Caspar got married. And then had their first kid. And then their next. And so on.

All her happy memories-well no. That’s not exactly fair-not to Ignatz or even herself. But still. A good chunk of her happy memories begins and ends with Caspar.

She pours herself some more wine from the decanter and Ignatz frowns as he folds up his glasses and turns down his light.

“Should you be drinking when you have a headache?”

“I’ll be fine. Go to bed.”

He frowns but doesn’t comment further. She sighs in relief when he turns over and goes to bed.

She and Ignatz had almost been fifty when they met by chance while shopping for art supplies. By then, her youngest had already gone off to Garreg Mach the year before and she was starting to feel neglected and lonely. When Ignatz invited her for some tea, she’d accepted-the first date she’d gone on since Caspar’s accident.

They’d taken their time chatting over pots of fine tea and petit fours. Ignatz showed her some of the stuff he’d sketched in the small notebook he carried with him. He’d already heard of her School of Art and was well acquainted with her work. She asked him to teach and he’d accepted and the rest, as they said, was history.

Her kids…well, other than the oldest, none of the others had memories of their father. And even her oldest had told her to move on for years. But who could measure up to Caspar?  
  
In the deepest, most private parts of herself, Hilda knew no one, not even Ignatz did. But he made her kids happy and she liked him enough and besides, he’d been friends with Caspar as well. Now looming up to her sixtieth (sixtieth!) birthday, she’d spent just as many years with Ignatz as she’d had with Caspar.

She drains the rest of the wine and remembers to take a glass of water before bed to help with the inevitable hangover waiting for her in the morning when she climbs under covers. Ignatz shifts on his side of the bed and in the darkness, she can just pretend the warmth of his body is that of Caspar’s.

It’s cruel to Ignatz and miserable for herself but the alcohol running her system makes it so that when she hugs herself against his back, it’s easy to slip into the illusion.

“Good night, darling,” she whispers into the night. Hilda is unsure what she’s waiting for but the silence makes her heart ache. Sleep does not come easy-she’s haunted by memories that she’d mistakenly thought lost to time. But eventually, finally, she does fall asleep.

And when she dreams, she dreams of soft blue hair, rough calloused palms and raucous laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd written this a while ago when the pandemic was really starting up and I was missing my friends and travelling which is why it's probably gloomy. Anyways, thanks for reading :)


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